Thick smoke frames the mindset of that last evening in July. Your memory, drenched in the nostalgic nectar of summer, has swelled in my brain. You are a world away and practically a stranger. Yet, I hold you with such high regard. My urban lungs fill with the cold grey that surrounds me. I imagine your lungs rise and fall with mountain air and far away fulfillment. Perhaps, it is not you. Perhaps, it was never you. For I now I know, that I have simply slapped your face upon the idea of freedom.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem